Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Your name falls from the page,
a scrap of memory pulled from time,
nearly distorted with displacement
but not so old yet as to be forgotten.

Every curve and pull of letter
etched along sand-grain lines,
both faded with the care of tentative pen
or embossed in heavy fervor:

They reveal such
tightly boxed thoughts which
pour out like smoke and fog.

They boil into something more concrete –
tears heavy with salt,
or blood coagulated cold and thick
and darker than the ink which holds my thoughts.


Think I'm still using too many cliches in my writing and as always a crap juvenile ending.